


Pressure Point

by Amster



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drug Abuse, Fluff, Fluffy bits are few and far between, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Possible smut later, Teenlock, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amster/pseuds/Amster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen years before John Watson and Sherlock Holmes met at St. Bart's hospital, two men met at University. One was an eighteen year old, well on his way to earning his doctorate in forensic science. The other was a med student, working as a student teacher to get in all his credits. This is the story of how John Watson and Sherlock Holmes became friends long before meeting. This is the story of how John Watson became Sherlock Holmes' pressure point. And the story of how Sherlock stopped being John's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Storm Inside The Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I understand that the idea is very odd... But I promise it is going to be a really wonderful story! The idea was not to make something that conformed to canon so much (that's the point of AU), rather to create a beautiful story. 
> 
> So, long before Sherlock and John met, they knew each other in University. John was the student-teacher in Sherlock's Advanced Chem course. As Sherlock is a prodigy, the class is exceedingly dull. And so Sherlock takes it upon himself to find entertainment... In the way of messing with the student-teacher. Naturally, a friendship occurs. And maybe even something more. 
> 
> At least that's the idea anyway. 
> 
> Now, before you begin the chapter, dear reader, please accept my sincerest apologies for the lack of John in this chapter. This whole chapter is actually more of a prologue than anything else, intended to set the tone and give the reader an idea of Sherlock's life now, before he meets John. 
> 
> Don't worry. John will definitely be in the next chapter.

     Thunder rolled across the sky, which hung heavy with night. The rain sang a symphony on the roof and against the window panes, and it was only punctuated by the sharp flashes of abrupt lightning, gone before they were truly seen.  Inside, in a comfortable little study, a fire roared so that the entire room was a haze of smoke and shimmering air. The dark profile of Sherlock Holmes could be seen before the flames.

     There was only so much of his long frame that could be tucked in the leather-clad armchair, so his legs jutted out before him while he propped his chin up on steepled fingers.

     He watched in fascination as the air danced and shivered before his eyes, humming along to the chaotic melody outside.

     Then there was a flash of waistcoat, expensive shoes, and an umbrella. Sherlock groaned, raising his eyes to find his elder brother staring down at him.

     “What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock snarled. A slow, almost dangerous smile spread across Mycroft’s face. One only used when Mycroft was particularly annoyed with Sherlock. The younger rolled his eyes.

     “You’re hallucinating. Brother, dear,” Mycroft replied slowly in that diplomatic voice he was using now that helped him weasel his way up the ladder of British government.

     “No. I’m in my mind palace. One would think they could have privacy in their own mind,” Sherlock retorted, turning his head away to look at the gorgeous, licking flames of the fire. They danced for him.

     “And yet here I am.”

     “Yes.”

     The pair trailed into silence, Mycroft watching Sherlock stare at the flames. Finally, Mycroft shifted position, looking down at his hands, which were propped on his umbrella. “What did you take, Sherlock?”

     Sighing, Sherlock turned his head away from the dancers in the fire to look up at the image of his brother. “Who says I took anything?”

     “Your eyes, your hairline, sleeve, chest and speech,” The elder responded, not missing a beat. Sherlock furrowed his brow in annoyance.

     “Am I really so obvious?” He asked despondently.

     “Only to people who are looking for it,” Mycroft replied matter-of-factly.  The other sibling huffed in exasperation, glaring up at his brother.

     “Well, you should stop looking for it. It’s none of your business what I do.  But if you really want to know what I took… It was cocaine.” He smirked up at Mycroft from his chair. “In fact, I’ve been upping the dosages recently. I am not typically inclined to use this word, but it feels, quite frankly, magical.” Sherlock relaxed further into his seat, closing his eyes. The melody of the storm came back into focus and Sherlock hummed along.

     “Tchaikovsky?” Mycroft asked.

     “No. Bach. Can’t you hear it?”

     “All I hear is a storm raging.”

     Sherlock smiled to himself. “I always did like rain.”


	2. Only A Superhuman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is so stupid. Vacant. Uniportant.  
> But sometimes you meet someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this is coming way later than promised. Some stuff came up at home and I couldn't write anything for a long time. I really am sorry. There are still problems at home but I wanted to get this chapter up at least in case more things come up. I'm fine, so don't worry or anything. Anyway, John will be in this chapter, as promised. Here's hoping that if there is a haitus for my fic, it won't be too long.

The people of London were being ridiculously frustrating again. The air was thick with moisture and fog hung above head like a plague. It had apparently affected every person in the city. Where people were stupid, they were now _excruciatingly so._ Where people moved slowly, they now moved in slow-motion and it was driving Sherlock completely mad. His fingers drummed his thigh and one of his legs bounced in agitation as he sat in the back of a puttering cab. The driver of the offending, sluggish vehicle was equally lethargic with slow, deliberate speech and an absolute refusal to _speed the cab up._

“Is there anyway you could go faster?” Sherlock muttered, digging his fingernails into the fabric of his trousers. Oh… Killing this cabbie would be so easy… Just reach out and _asphyxiate_ him.

The driver looked up, adjusting his mirror so he could look at Sherlock in the back. “I’m going the speed limit mate.”

“Three miles per hour under,” Sherlock growled.

So. Bloody. Easy.

“You in a hurry or something?”

Sherlock locked eyes with the driver in the mirror. A slow, murderous smile spread across his face. “Not at all. But I’m seriously considering snapping you neck. And the longer I am in this cab with you, the more likely that is to happen.”

The cab sped up. Sherlock sat back in his seat, relaxing and watching as the city passed by in the window. At least things were now moving at nearly the same pace as he was. 

* * *

 The day inched by at a snail's pace. Every second dragged like an hour. Sherlock couldn't take how slow it all was. It was as if weights had been attatched to him, limiting his speed, his mind. These weights were people, professors, other students, all weighing Sherlock down. They moved about in their dull, unimportant little lives. God, Sherlock wanted to kill them. 

It was good of him that he didn't. He kept his frail temper in check, only using painkillers once. Admittedly, it was a rather high dose and he practically floated through half the day, but by his last class he had come down enough that his nerves were as wound as ever. At least he was going to be in a chemistry class. Something that was actually useful. 

Sherlock dug his fingernails into his thigh. The professor was already driving him mad. All he did was ramble and drone. He didn't get at anything important. And Sherlock needed to  _do_  something. He needed work. A puzzle to solve. Anything. 

"He's rather boring isn't he?" A plain-looking girl, with far too much eye makeup whispered. There was a conspiratory, flirty smile on he face. It made Sherlock want to vomit. 

The prodigy ran his eyes over her, attention immediately drawn to the purity ring on her finger and the cross-shaped bulge under her jumper. It said Christian. But the fact that the cross was  _tucked in_ rather than openly displayed informed Sherlock that she wasn't exactly proudly presenting her religion. The copious amount of eye make up partnered with the fact he could literally see the lace on her bra because her shirt was so low cut reaffirmed his deduction. She desperately desired attention to make up for the deep-seated insecurity about her appearance. Sherlock was not in the mood.

"Very boring. At least the subject he's teaching is more interesting than shagging you would be, so stop writing your number on that little piece of paper, I'm not interested." Sherlock smiled and turned back to the teacher. He turned back to her quickly. "And you might want to get rid of that purity ring if you don't plan to stay pure. It's a bit of a turn-off to some men." 

"Hey! In the back. Quiet down!" The professor called to Sherlock huffily. 

"How do you plan to make me?" Sherlock jeered. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, challenging the professor. 

"There will be no talking unless you can solve the equation on the chalkboard!" The professor declared to all in the classroom. 

Sherlock glanced up at the problem. It was simple enough. "As a matter of fact, I can," Sherlock replied. 

"That's enough out of you!" Shouted the professor. Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, jaw working, teeth grinding. "Anyway," The teacher continued, straightening out his stringy hair, "This problem may look hard to all of you now. But, hopefully, by the end of the term, each one of you will be able to solve it. The exam will be working through this equation-"

"Really?" Sherlock scoffed. "It's so easy! Don't tell me that this is is supposed to be our exam!" He looked around the class, trying to find someone who would agree. But they all were so blank. No one knew how to do it. Sherlock was the only one. 

"What did I tell you? Quiet down now or I shall have you removed from this course!" The professor cried. 

"It's a wonder I haven't murdered all of you yet! This is stunningly simple! And not a single one of you morons can understand it?" Sherlock snapped, standing, his constitution finally breaking down. Heads turned, all eyes on him as he vented his frustration. "Look at the equation! Look at it! It's easy!" Sherlock demanded. He marched up to the gaping professor and snatched the little piece of chalk from his hand. In his messy scrawl Sherlock wrote out the problem. Even his writing was frustrated, chalk shrieking against the chalkboard as the enraged student wrote slowly, heavy, deliberately. As if doing so would make them understand. In a matter of moments it was, done, the equation balanced, solution worked and Sherlock turned back to the class searching their faces for any sign of understanding. He waited expectantly for an "Ah!"or an " _Oh..."_ to show that someone grasped the concept. To show that someone _got it_. Instead he was met with vacant stares, blank faces. Dull, unintelligent eyes.

It was moments like these that Sherlock remembered how truly alone he was.

 ~~~~Sherlock straightened himself up, buttoned his coat and turned the collar up cooly. His glare was frigid as he gently set the chalk back down on the metal tray. Of course they wouldn't get it. They were all stupid. He turned back to them, looking each of these "advanced" students over. Cat lovers, dancers, ink-stained writers' hands, a closeted lesbian. But not a single intellegent person to be found.

"You're all so _slow_ ," He snarled bitterly. With that he turned his back to them and as he stalked to the door he slammed directly into another person. Sherlock blinked down in surprise at the vastly shorter man. Well built, blond, rugy player, bachelor, med student, definately not enrolled in this advanced chemistry course. Unimportant.

"Sorry mate," The blond apologized, looking up at the taller fellow. Sherlock was taken aback.

His eyes. They were... intelligent. They had life. They had purpose.

"Erm, excuse me," The blond mumbled, trying to step past Sherlock, but Sherlock blocked him, trapping him in the doorway of this classroom.

"Who are you," Sherlock demanded, searching him. The prodigy had been thrown off guard. He lived his life in the midst of lifeless eyes. To see someone who wasn't blank, who wasn't entirely stupid, was strange and confusing. New.

"I'm John Watson," The other replied, taking up a defensive stance. Why was he doing that? Did Sherlock put him off guard as much as he did Sherlock? "Can you let me by please?"

Sherlock stepped aside, watching him carefully. "I only ask because you are so obviously not a student in an advanced chemistry course," Sherlock mentioned, looking down at him with a smirk.

John turned to him, surprised. "How would you know- Hey! What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything, simply stating a fact." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "You might want to go inside now. People might think it odd we're having a conversation in a doorway." Sherlock brushed past John, a triumphant jaunt in his walk.

"Who are you?" John called after him.

The prodigy smirked. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

 * * *

 John felt like a rescue team on the arse-end of a tropical disaster. Walking into the classroom was like walking into the aftermath of a cyclone. He supposed that if he had to describe Sherlock as anything, a storm would be proper. 

A girl in the back of the class was sniveling. One student was tearing pages out of his notes and ripping each page in half. Jesus, what did this kid do? 

At the front of the room, near the big chalkboard stood the professor. He was staring, flabbergasted up at some scribble on the board. Whatever was up there was way above John's head. The extent of his chemistry knowledge went as far as knowing which medications mixed with which made poisons. And that was all he needed to know. 

He made his way over to the professor quietly, not wanting to upset anyone further. "I'm sorry I'm late," John whispered. "What happened?"

"That's the term question," The professor whispered numbly, not taking his eyes off the chalk marks. "That's the term question and he just solved it. Without even trying." 

John's jaw dropped and he looked up at the board, stunned. His mind couldn't even begin to make sense of the equation. Part of him just couldn't believe it. How could some kid just show up and solve the term question without putting forth an effort? It couldn't be possible. The chemicals were too complex. The math was too advanced. Only a superhuman could do that. A machine. 

"Did he get it right?" John asked slowly. 

"Yes." 

Screw storm. Sherlock Holmes was a hurricane. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon. Again, really sorry about the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> The rain thing is going to be brought back up again! I swear. 
> 
> And I PROMISE John will be in the next chapter.


End file.
